The Misfits
by WinterSky272
Summary: The trans anorexic, the self-harming emo, the nympho, the klepto, and the alcoholic with anger issues. They meet in a support group. Allies-centric. USUK/UKUS, among others. Trans!America
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMARY:** The trans anorexic, the self-harming emo, the nympho, the klepto, and the alcoholic with anger issues. They meet in a support group.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Do not own.  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hello, welcome to my first Hetalia fanfiction, and the first work on my new account!  
I just love mtf trans!America and no one can stop me. I like the name Amelia because it means "industrious" or "striving".  
Also; even though I am doing research on the behaviours, symptoms, effects, etc. of the various conditions, my information is not perfect, so if you see some glaring issue, please let me know and I'll try to change it.  
This will also probably be more light-hearted than it sounds.

* * *

Amelia Jones sighed as read the number on the scale. She was gaining more every week. Somewhere inside herself, deep inside, she knew that it was good for her. That part, however, was very hidden, and in that moment she only lamented on her weight gain.

She pulled on her loose bomber jacket over a big t-shirt, along with loose jeans and sneakers. She looked over at the toilet, in the back of her mind entertaining the idea of vomiting her breakfast into it.

"Amelia, it's time for Support Group!" She heard her mom call. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. She tucked a loose amber curl behind her ear, and halfway in its path to her side, quickly brought her fingers up again to loosen the lock, hair falling in front of her face, before making her way downstairs.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland slipped on his many, many rubber logo bracelets, covering up his scars. He was putting on his favourite red kicks when the door opened.

"Oi, Artie! Mom says it's time for your weird club!" Peter, Arthur's younger brother said, his head peeking through the entrance. The blonde backed up quickly as Arthur threw one of his shoes at him.

"How many times have I told you?! Don't come into my room without knocking!" Arthur yelled at his annoying younger brother, the latter merely laughing and skipping down the hall to his own room.

The green-eyed teen sighed, getting up to collect his fallen shoe. He put it on, then went to the mirror to tie his red chequered scarf around his neck. As he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his blonde roots were showing through the black.

"I'll have to fix that." he muttered to himself, checking his appearance one last time before grabbing his iPod, headphones, and heading downstairs.

* * *

Francis moaned, hand working its way up and down his hard shaft. Bucking his hips up, he came with a shout. He reached over to his bedside table, grabbed a tissue, and began to wipe himself off.

Once he was done, had tossed the tissue carelessly to the side of his bed, and had laid back on his soft sheets to relax, his phone rang.

"_I wanna fuck you like an animal. I wanna feel you from the inside. My whole existence is-_"

"Hello?" Francis answered, annoyed. Who would dare disturb him in his post-orgasm haze?

"_Oi, arsehole. It's time for Support Group; you better not leave me alone for this._"

"Rosbif, you interrupted me right after a most splendid orgasm."

"_ARGH! Shut up you bastard! Just get your arse over here!_"

"How about I get my ass over there if you let me take your ass once I'm there?" Francis chuckled as he heard a click.

Oh well, he had nothing better to do.

* * *

The man wore a pair of dark burberry sunglasses, a long blonde wig, fake breasts, white leather gloves, a green pullover sweater, black leggings, and black pixie boots as he entered the store.

He busied himself looking at handbags, pretending to examine the colours and materials, when he really had his eyes on one white-gold watch in the display case to his right. He looked around, reviewing the location of every security camera in the vicinity. There was one that was pointed even remotely in his direction, and it was not facing the true destination. He glanced over at the salesperson behind the watch counter. She looked bored, leaning over the counter and twirling an amber lock round and round her finger.

Perfect.

Yao went up to her, smiling.

"Hi," he greeted in a voice higher than his normal octave. "May I try on some of the watches?"

"Of course." the woman said, her fake smile even more half-assed than expected. "Which one?"

"I'd like that one." Yao pointed to a rose-gold watch with a thin leather strap.

"Good choice." she said, reaching under the glass to take the item out. Yao resisted the urge to roll it eyes. It was so obviously _not_ a good choice at all. The size of the watch was far too disproportionate to the thin strap, and the rose-gold didn't match his skin tone at all.

He took it from her, resting it over his left wrist. He pretended to appraise it for a moment, before turning his lips down into a practiced frown, slight and refined.

"I don't like it all that much. How about this one?" he pointed a finger to the grand prize: a white-gold watch, a chunky chain, roman numerals marking the 12, 3, 6, and 9 with small diamonds marking the hours in between. With a mother of pearl face, it was _perfect_.

His insides felt jittery as he tried it on, clasp locking perfectly around his slim left wrist. Perfect fit.

"_There's nothing I want, but money and time. Million dollar bills and a tick tick-_"

"Yes?"

"_Yao, are you at Support Group?_"

_Shit_.

"I'll be there right away." he said in a serious manner. Maybe he could make it look like he had to go to the hospital or something.

"_Yao-_" Yao hung up.

"I'm sorry. That was my father; my mother is in the hospital." he turned to go, starting to walk away quickly. He brought his right hand to his eye, under his sunglasses to wipe away a fake tear. He made it out of the store and into his silver, demure car. This one he had actually bought; it wouldn't do well for such a big thing that he couldn't get rid of to be suspicious while he was out stealing.

"Yes!" he exclaimed to himself once in the safety of his vehicle, pumping his fist in the air as he started the car. He zipped out of parking lot, internally cheering his _awesome_ victory. As he left the vicinity, he ripped off the blonde wig, tossing it onto the seat beside him.

Now that the heist was successfully completed, it was time to go to Support Group.

* * *

"I will not go to Support Group, Katyusha." Ivan spoke as he took a large gulp from his vodka bottle.

"Oh but, Ivan, you must." his older sister said, twiddling her fingers together. "The school said that you have to attend support group or else you'll be expelled."

"They will not expel me. I am star student." he replied.

"Ivan…" she quieted at the sharp look from her younger brother. She backed out of the room, leaving her brother sitting in the dark living room, surrounded by bottles of vodka, both empty and full.

"Natalya," she hissed once she arrived in the kitchen. The younger girl stared back in response.

"Can you tell Ivan to attend his Support Group?" she asked hesitantly.

"He would be more likely to listen to you." Natalya responded, face impassive, words biting and bitter.

"You have a greater effect on him." Katyusha bit her lip, trying to ignore the threat in her sister's tone.

Natalya's shoulders drooped. "Fine. I will convince him to go." The older sister let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

The long-haired girl shuffled into the living room, stopping in the doorway.

"Ivan." she spoke, though it came out more like a yell. Ivan jumped at the sound of her resounding voice. "It is time for your Support Group." A dark aura seemed to emanate from her, chilling the dark room.

"I- I-" he stuttered, trying to flatten himself against his chair.

"You will go to support group." she repeated, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes, sister!" he said nervously, jumping up and out of his seat. He backed away, towards the front door, and away from his sister.

"You can not drive." she commented, voice icy.

"I will walk." he responded, opening the door and darting out into the sunny day. Temporarily blinded by the light, he held up a hand and continued on, fast-walking away from his house, away from his scary sister, and, unfortunately, towards Support Group.

* * *

"Hello everyone!" a green-eyed brunette exclaimed. "Welcome to Support Group! I'm Ms. Elizabeta." She looked around at the diverse group of teens before her. "Since it is the first meeting of the new season, we have many new faces today, so this is a message to our newcomers and a reminder those of us returning: Support Group is a safe place where we can talk about our problems, issues, anything that you need support for, or sometimes we'll talk about something unrelated for fun. To start, let's go around the room and say our names, an interest we have, and why we're here." She looked to her left and to her right. On the left was a meek-looking girl, her head down, her clothes baggy, and her shoulder length hair covering her face. To her right was a burly man who looked very intimidating. Eenie meenie…

"Why don't you start?" she asked, leaning slightly towards the girl on her left and away from the intimidating Swede to her right.

She met Ms. Elizabeta's gaze warily before turning her head back down. "I'm-" No, she had to be stronger than this. She brought her head up to face the rest of the group, but left her hair covering most of her face. Be brave, she told herself. Be a hero.

"I'm Amelia Jones. I'm anorexic, and I love comic books." Amelia looked to Ms. Elizabeta for confirmation that she had done well. The woman smiled at her, much to Amelia's relief.

Next was the black-haired teen beside her. Amelia thought that he looked kind of goofy. His black hair was swept severely to the side, and he wore red sneakers, black skinny jeans, a punk t-shirt, a multitude of wristbands, and a scarf to match his sneakers. It reminded Amelia of a cowboy.

"I'm Arthur." He said, casually saluting the group with two fingers. "I self-harm and I like punk music."

"I'm Francis. I have satyriasis, though the term more commonly known is 'nymphomania'. I've also been chasing after this rosbif beside me for years, but alas, he still claims to be straight." Francis heaved a heavy sigh, ignoring the way that the Brit beside him had turned a shade to rival his scarf.

Ms. Elizabeta coughed lightly, bringing her hand to her lips to hide her barely repressed smile.

"I'm Yao. I am a kleptomaniac and I like cooking." He tucked a stray black lock behind his ear, white-gold watch glinting in the light.

"I am Ivan. I should not be here. I like tinkering, plumbing, sunflowers, and vodka." said the violet-eyed teen.

"For what reason were you recommended to this group?" Ms. Elizabeta asked.

"My principal says that I will be expelled if I do not attend. He did not like me whacking students with my magical stick."

Ms. Elizabeta nodded, a bit confused, and the group continued. Next was Lovino, who had had Sydenham's Chorea for almost a year, accompanied by OCD, emotional liability, personality changes, and more would have been known had the explanation of his brother, Feliciano, who had come for moral support, not been cut off by a red-faced Lovino. Next was a tall blonde with slicked-back hair and clear blue eyes. He sat stiffly in his chair, eyes darting around the room. His brother spoke for him.

"This fellow here has OCD and is depressed. He's also got social anxiety. The Awesome Me has been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder, whatever that means. West likes reading and I have a pet bird, who is almost as cool as I am."

The meeting continued on, several more people introducing themselves. Eventually, or rather, finally to one Arthur Kirkland, the group meeting was over.

As Ms. Elizabeta said a closing statement, how she was happy to have met everyone, how she looked forward to seeing them all next week, blah, blah, blah, Arthur was tapping his foot rapidly, trying to keep silent. He couldn't wait for this to be over, but he couldn't be an uncouth hog to the woman either.

The Brit jumped out of his seat the moment that Ms. Elizabeta dismissed them, crashing into the amber-haired girl beside him. He blushed as he felt her small breasts through her shirt.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" she asked quickly, looking surprised and nervous and _afraid_. Her limbs closed in on themselves, her shoulders slumped, and she somehow gave herself the appearance of being smaller in a matter of seconds. Her outward appearance mirrored how the embarrassed Brit felt inside.

"No, no. It's my fault, I apologise." The black-haired boy said, feeling lost a bit at how _pretty_ this girl was. "Let me walk you out." he uttered, surprising himself. The girl nodded meekly, and they proceeded out of the room together. What was her name? Oh gosh, what would he do?

"I- I'm Amelia. I'm sorry for making you do this." she finally said after a minute of silence.

"Oh, truly. It was my fault, and it's no problem to walk you out." Arthur comforted her, feeling a sense of relief himself that he did not have to ask for her name. The girl, no, _Amelia_, nodded almost imperceptibly before averting her gaze.

Arthur studied her as she focused on the ground. She had shoulder-length, wavy amber hair that hung like a blanket over her face. The fact that she wore loose-fitting clothes, along with her blanket-like hair and her looking like she was trying to shrink herself clued Arthur into a simple fact- she was not comfortable with herself. One fact that contradicted this simple fact was the bomber situated on Amelia's shoulders. It was… _different_ for someone trying not to be noticed to wear such a prominent jacket. The anomaly in behaviour intrigued the Brit.

"I like your jacket." he complimented, the girl's eyes darting towards him quickly, hair suspended in the air for a moment before falling back over her face. "It's a bomber jacket, right? World War II?"

"Yes." she replied simply, tucking her hair behind her ear to reveal wide blue eyes. She looked almost hesitant for a moment, biting her lip for a quick second before letting her words flow out. "Though really, it debuted post-World War II. This design, with the fur collar was first created in 1940, but it didn't have it's current name until 1947. It's called the 'G-1', not to be confused with the A-2; that was the one used during World War II. There wasn't much of a difference between the two, except for the fact that the A-2 has a, oh, what's it called, fold over collar? Like the one on a button-up shirt. The A-2 was used for the Air Forces, and the design's been redone recently, and the G-1 is used for the Navy and Coast Guard, and has stayed basically the same to this day.

"I started wearing this one after I read Captain America, though at the time I hadn't known about the difference between the G-1 and the A-2. I don't really mind though, I still really love this jacket. My dad bought it for me after…" Suddenly her eyes, previously bright as she spoke about the jackets, dimmed into horror. She looked at Arthur's face then looked back towards the floor, loosening her hair. She had nearly told this person, this stranger, about how she received this gift to celebrate her starting estrogen treatment. Not only that, she had gone on about her jacket in such an irritating way. Oh god, what had she done? She had probably just scared off this nice guy, though a bit odd looking, by her annoying existence. Oh god, oh god, oh-

Her thoughts were interrupted by slender fingers brushing against her face. She paused in her step, and her body stiffened. Amelia glanced at the hand, and became wide-eyed when she saw the red scars peeking out from the displaced bracelets.

"You have nothing to worry about." the voice beside her crooned, the fingers tucking her hair behind her ear. As she turned to face the voice, she felt… exposed, bare, yet she noticed that inside those green eyes was their own struggle. There was pain there too, but it was tinged with something so warm that for a moment, she forgot the feeling of being under a microscope, even as those eyes pierced her. The boy before her managed a smile, a small upward turn of one side of his mouth, barely there, yet speaking volumes.

"I enjoyed it."

They held each others' gazes, neither wanting to break the moment, when a phone started ringing, the sound blaring to their ears.

"_Don't want to be an American idiot. Don't want a nation under the new mania. Can you hear the sound of hysteria? The subliminal mindfuck Amer-_"

"Hello?" Arthur greeted, cringing.

"Arthurrrr, get out here, Mom said we can go get ice creammmm." sang the voice of his annoying brother.

The teen in question pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'll be out in a minute." he replied grudgingly, hanging up before his brother could say anything more. He looked to Amelia, but the moment had been shattered.

"I have to go." he said lamely. Amelia nodded, face tilted slightly downwards, gaze somewhere around his neck.

"C- Could I have your number?" He cursed his stutter, but his words seemed to do the trick. Blue eyes snapped onto green, head nodding imperceptibly.

The Brit handed the amber-haired girl his phone, where she typed her contact in a rapid-fire way.

"I'll see you around." she said quietly.

"Yeah, I'll see you." With that, he turned and left, walking away, dazed, leaving a blushing and just a little bit happy American behind.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** Do not own.  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome to chapter 2! Thank you everyone who favourited, followed, or reviewed; you guys are awesome! :D  
I completely forgot to tag the songs in the last chapter!  
Francis's ringtone: Closer, by Nine Inch Nails  
Yao's ringtone: Million Dollar Bills, by Lorde  
Arthur's ringtone: American Idiot, by Green Day  
Amelia's ringtone(this chapter): What Are You Going to Do When You Are Not Saving the World?, by Hans Zimmer(seriously, listen to this song, it's amazing)  
Matthew's car 1: The Boxer, by Simon and Garfunkel(this song is also amazing)  
Matthew's car 2: Hello Andheron, by Agnee

* * *

Amelia was in a bit of a daze as she watched the Arthur's retreating form. She felt a fluttering in her stomach, as well as a bit of tingling further down. The latter sensation surprised her; between the anorexia, tinges of depression, and hormone treatment, her sex drive had been all but killed.

Amelia had been at the height of her depression when she was thirteen, and experiencing major gender dysphoria. Alfred F. Jones had spoken to his quiet brother about his feelings, begging for him not to tell a soul. Alfred hadn't known what was going on with him, he just felt so dissatisfied with his body, himself, everything about him. He became obsessed with comics with the badass heroes who were confident and awesome. He wished that he could be as awesome and as brave as them.

He ate less; he hated his body. He wanted to disappear. He wasn't worth the air he breathed in his mind. Eventually, noticing that their "son" was acting differently, Alfred was brought to a doctor, with whom he confided his feelings of dysphoria and depression and hate. He neglected to tell the doctor that he hadn't been eating. Tests were ran, and the Jones family discovered that "he" was actually a "she".

They had a family discussion with the doctor, and decided over time that Alfred would start hormone treatment in a few months. He started going by Amelia, he grew out his hair, and "he" became "she".

It was on the 4th of July that Amelia Jones was born. Kind of like a phoenix, she thought. It was also on that day that she received her bomber jacket, a gift that she treasured above all else. It had been the summer before she started high school.

Being Amelia Jones made her happy; her depression faded away, with only small, far apart bouts. She stayed a healthy, happy girl for two years.

It was the summer before junior year started that she noticed the differences between the girls around her and herself. At the beach, they all wore bikinis, though Amelia had to wear a skirt. They all showed their every inch and curve. It wasn't just the barely more masculine features of herself that were variant, it was that she was _fat_. The slightly boy-ish appearance would go away with time, she knew it would. It had been. Her only problem was the fat that adorned her belly, her arms, her legs, her face. It was like a parasitic leech, stealing her happiness.

She hid herself, wore loose clothing once again that hung off her like a sheet. Her hair fell like a curtain over her face, hiding the baby fat that clung to her cheeks, hiding herself from the world. She began to eat less once again, smiling a bit as her weight went down. She was satisfied, but she needed to lose just a little bit more.

Her weight fell from high normal to low normal to slightly underweight to a striking underweight in a severely unhealthy amount of time. She had hidden the loss under her clothing, so that neither Mattie nor her parents would notice anything wrong.

At her next doctor's visit, simply a check-up to see how the hormone treatment was going and to renew her prescription, the doctor caught onto her as soon as she stepped on the scale. He ordered her parents to watch her food intake, monitor her weight, and everything Amelia had been doing only with the opposite effect in mind. He recommended a support group to her, one that was starting a new season in a month. She would have a few weeks to build her weight back up, and she wouldn't have to be the only newcomer to the group.

Her parents, her doctor, they were reversing all of her hard work. Despite a miniscule nagging sense that they were right, Amelia resented the lot of them.

At least, she did until right now. With the way that the boy had treated her, her doubts were starting to become just a bit more prominent. Perhaps she was simply satisfactory as she was.

She shook her head, wiping away the preposterous thoughts in her mind. The main theme of Man of Steel started playing.

"Yeah, Mattie?" she said, pressing a white iPhone to her ear.

"I'm in the parking lot." he said, voice nearly a whisper.

"Huh? I'm coming out to the parking lot now." she said, finally moving from her spot in the middle of the hallway, a bit embarrassed at how long she had been standing there.

"That's what I- nevermind. I'll see you in a minute." Amelia frowned as she heard the beep of her brother hanging up. Had he said something?

She made her way to the parking lot, thinking about Arthur, not noticing that her hair was still tucked behind her ear.

* * *

Yao walked behind the tall Russian man. The neck of a clear vodka bottle peeked out of the top of his left pocket.

_How foolish_, Yao thought. First, the lug had brought alcohol to a support group, and second, he had left it so exposed!

Yao did not think about, nor had it occurred to him, the fact that he had worn an outfit almost entirely comprised of stolen clothes and accessories to Support Group.

He moved silently, getting closer and closer to the Russian with every moment. He thanked his soft-sole, completely noiseless shoes. Thank you, dumb brunette with the large nose. He was almost there, he could almost see the vodka sloshing inside, the nectar of victory nearly in his grasp. Almost there, almost there. He reached out a slender hand to grab it when-

_WHAM!_

Before he could comprehend what was happening, Yao was thrust against the wall, back slamming against it with a grunt. A pipe was to his throat, and a giant Russian was pressing said pipe against him. He stood on his toes so as not to choke on the cool metal.

"What are you doing?" his attacker asked, smile on his face, eyes cold. Yao's mouth opened to reply, but nothing came out; he was too shocked.

"Surely you were not trying to steal my vodka, da?" he threatened, pressing the pipe harder against Yao's throat, cutting off the shorter boy's air supply.

Oh gosh, would he die? He felt that he might with his lack of oxygen.

_Please, let me live. I promise I'll never steal again. Please, please, please, please-_

Yao gasped as the pipe was removed. Oh, sweet oxygen. He crumpled to the floor, panting.

_What luck. I will celebrate coming out of this near-death experience with a new weapon for myself, so if such a thing happens again I will be able to defend myself. Perhaps a butterfly knife…?_

He was thrown from his thoughts when the teen who had just tried to suffocate him sat down beside him. He looked on in shock as the taller teen pulled the vodka bottle from his pocket and offered it to Yao.

"If you wanted some, you need only ask." he stated. "I am happy to share with pretty girl like you."

"I'm not a-" Yao began to protest.

"Drink up." the taller teen said, forcing the bottle into the other's hands. The dark-haired teen looked at the bottle hesitantly, wondering if drinking it would have some disastrous effect on him.

_Oh well._

He took a gulp of the clear liquid, surprised to find that it seemed perfectly okay. Not only that, it tasted very good. It was high quality alcohol. He drank more, sipping it slowly to savour the taste. Yao almost forgot about the brutality his companion had just shown as the liquid burned down his throat.

"You are Yao, da? We sit together at Group." he said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, and you are Ivan?" the dark-haired boy responded, looking away from the bottle and to the tall one sitting next to him. He had been the alcoholic with anger issues, hadn't he? He was rather bulky, built like a rugby player. He wore a pale scarf and a long, vintage coat. It was open, revealing a white tank top and dark green slacks. Yao thought it a bit odd that he could keep so many layers on indoors.

"Yes." He took the vodka bottle and sipped it, dangling it between his bent legs and leaning his head against the wall. He closed his eyes as the warmth of the alcohol spread through him. "If you try to steal from me again I will crush you with my magical stick." The smile remained plastered on his face.

Yao shivered a bit, wondering what he had gotten himself into when he had so foolishly tried to steal that vodka bottle.

But then again, Yao did a lot of foolish things, didn't he?

* * *

"Mattieee, I met a boy today!" Amelia exclaimed as she clambered into her brother's red car. "Oh, and can I drive?"

Her brother sighed. "Emmie, you know that you can't." Amelia wasn't allowed to drive; even though she was 16 and was old enough to get her Learner's Permit, her doctor had advised against it "until she was in a better state".

"I know, Matt." He pretended not to see her disappointed face, though it wasn't hard.

"So what about that boy?" he asked, changing the subject and starting the car. He smiled a bit as he noticed her face brighten up again.

"He's cute! British, though." Amelia furled her nose. "He asked for my number."

"Emmie, that's great! It's good for you to meet new people." he said, referring to the fact that her brother was currently her only friend.

Amelia nodded and moved to turn on the radio.

"_I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles. Such are promises all lies and jest. Still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest._"

"Awww, Mattie, what's up with the oldie music?" Amelia complained, switching back to his more personal nickname.

"It's good, so shut up." Matthew retorted, turning the volume louder, causing his sister to cross her arms and pout. A small grin overtook her face, unnoticed by her brother. Like a flash of lightning, she ejected the CD, then whipped out and inserted her own.

"Now _this_ is music!" she exclaimed. The song playing was the theme song of the Avenger's movie in India. Matthew frowned as the singing began.

"Do you even know what language this is in?" he asked, already having an idea of what the answer would be.

"Nope!" Amelia replied.

"…If I take you to McDonald's, will you let me put on my music?"

"HELL YEAH."

* * *

"How was Support Group, mi amigo?" Antonio Fernández Carriedo, a brown-haired and cheerful young man, asked his friend.

"Ah, same as always. Meaningless conversation for the first meeting. Lot of new people. Arthur was there, as always." Francis looked at his companion carefully; he was happily doodling in the condensed water covering his drink. "Gilbert was there, along with his younger brother. They sat next to the most adorable twins."

Antonio hummed, not pausing in his task.

"Why don't you come with me to Group next week, for… moral support?" More like immoral support.

"Sure!" the Spaniard replied happily. Francis smirked.

"We could acquaint ourselves with the two Italian boys." Francis suggested.

"Of course, I love meeting new people!" Antonio said, smile naïvely bright.

_This will be fun,_ Francis thought. He was already getting excited at the mere idea. He did _very_ much enjoy sleeping with people, and even more so when it was the result of a won game.

Francis needed sex like food, but it was so much more enthralling to play with his food before he feasted.

He was not only addicted to the end result, he was also addicted to the thrill of the chase.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** My gosh I'm so excited for the next chapter where I will go into Russia's background!  
Last thing, sorry. I do intend to update weekly, but last week my laptop was confiscated and this Friday I am leaving for a two week music camp then touring colleges, so the next update will not be until at least the end of June.  
Thanks for reading!

***EDIT 11 JULY 2014*** I removed my incredibly long Author's Note. If you want to read it, I'll probably post it on Tumblr soon; the link will be in my profile.


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome to chapter 3! Also oops, I kinda made this chapter pretty dark; I think this is probably one of the darkest chapters that will come out of this story. In addition, I sort of stole the past of this girl I used to go to school with for Russia, with numerous changes. Thank you once again for all of your favourites, follows, and reviews; each one makes me smile and squeal in extreme happiness.  
WARNING: There is a descriptive self-harm/vivid memories of self-harm, so if that will bother you, feel free to message me and I'll send you the chapter with those parts edited out and include a summary of those scenes. There are also two small mentions of child abuse.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Do not own.

* * *

Amelia Jones felt a bit apprehensive as the car coasted away from her house and towards Support Group. Well, that was a lie. She was _very_ apprehensive, and very, very anxious. A whole week had gone by, an entire seven days, nearly 168 hours! And not once- not _once_- had she received any sort of contact from that boy.

_He_ had been the one to ask for her number, so why hadn't he texted, called even? It was utterly _maddening_.

…Or was it she who had done something wrong? The thought sent the girl's mind into a spin. Oh my, it had been she who had scared Arthur off! Was it because she talked about her jacket so much? He said that he enjoyed it… oh, he was probably lying. No one could ever think of her her as anything close to interesting.

Amelia was so lost in her rambling thoughts that she did not notice her and her mother approaching the plain building that held her support group. She had no idea of where or when they were, until her mother's cheerful voice snapped her from the cage of her mind.

"We're here!" she announced, causing Amelia to start. When she came to, she saw none other than the object of her stress, Arthur, looking right back at her.

_Of course. Of course, he just _had_ to be standing right in front of my car. And looking at me! Oh god, oh god…_

"Go on, Em! I think that boy wants to talk to you." her mother encouraged, unlocking the car doors. Amelia shot a "please no" glance at her before exiting the car. Seeing the Brit's gaze on her, she decided that she'd rather escape. However, her mother had already closed and locked the door and was currently speeding off.

Amelia slowly turned her gaze from the now far away car to the black-haired boy in front of her.

Arthur stood stiffly, blank expression, yet screaming on the inside, unwavering as he stared into the eyes of Amelia Jones. For a moment, he felt frozen in time. When he came back and finally realised that yes, this was actually, truly happening, he felt a world of shame crash down upon his shoulders. It was palpable, like a sudden gust of cold air dousing him with its chill. He felt hypersensitive, feeling the urge, the instinct to _run, run, run_, yet not being able to move, not being able to flee, thoughts racing miles per second.

_Oh, Jesus, Jesus, goddamn fucking _shit_. Why, why, why, why, why, why didn't I text her? Oh yeah, because I am a fucking LOSER WIMP and I don't have the courage to text a pretty girl._

_What do I say, what do I say, what do I SAY?_

"Um, hi."

_WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT._

_LET ME TELL YOU WHAT THAT WAS- THAT WAS _BULLSHIT_!_

Arthur felt his skin tingling, crawling. Black tickled his vision. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. He focused on the little crescent shaped pains, trying to calm down, but it wasn't enough. He needed more, more-

"Hi." Amelia said quietly, startling the Brit from his trance. Her soft voice lulled him a bit, and the world came back into focus, her face the centre of it all. His nails were still embedded in his skin.

"Arthur…" she nearly whispered. "You're bleeding."

He looked down and noticed that yes, he was bleeding. The red liquid had slipped through his fingers and was sliding to his knuckles. He slowly unfurled his grip and raised his hands to see four curved cuts in his skin, blood slowly flowing from each.

"Oh."

"Come with me." she commanded, walking up to the boy and grabbing onto his forearm to drag him behind her.

"O- okay." he stuttered as he was led, not focusing on the path, but on the blood on his palms. The red liquid was so mesmerising; it had been such a long time since he had seen it. He wanted, no, needed more. He felt his fingers twitch, needing a razor in his hands, on his wrists. He closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath as he imagined slitting his skin. He could feel the cold metal in his fingers, feel the blade against his skin, see the vicious red against pale white. He felt the faintest hint of the same rush of calm that he always felt.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he heard a door being opened and closed. He came back to the world when he felt a burst of cold washed over his hand. He shivered and looked at the white sink, small swirls of blood in water slipping down the drain. His gaze then fell upon the copper hair of Amelia, fallen over her face as she looked down at the palm in the sink. He watched silently as she washed soap over the wounds, him hissing slightly, and moved on to grab the next hand. She grabbed a paper towel and gently dabbed, then pulled disinfectant and band-aids from her inner coat pocket. Arthur thought it ridiculous that the girl had such things with her, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly as the girl worked diligently to treat his wounds.

"You're fixed." she said, letting go of his hands which immediately dropped to his sides without her support.

"Not really." he grinned, a maniac, ironic, twisted sort of grin. "But thank you." he added on quickly, grin fading. He couldn't be rude, no. He must always act a gentleman. But even as that little panic, little scare of seeming ungrateful, came, it was dulled as if the sensation came to him through water, slow and murky.

"It's no problem." she said, lifting her head to meet his eyes, before turning back around to wash her own hands. "Let's go to Group."

She went ahead of him out the door, and he followed, realising with a blush as he saw the door that he had been in the _girls'_ bathroom. Amelia seemed unfazed, so Arthur caught up to her.

"So… why do you carry around first-aid supplies?" Arthur asked somewhat casually.

"I'm very accident-prone." she replied curtly. He hummed a bit in response, calmer after his episode.

They walked to Support Group in awkward silence.

* * *

Ivan watched silently as the members of the support group mingled before the meeting started. That long-haired frenchman, along with some other person whom hadn't been there the week previous, was chatting with the Italian twins. The two seemed rather suspicious, and the darker-haired twin's face was lighting up like a tomato while the lighter-haired one appeared to be cheerful, much like an excited puppy.

His purple eyes wandered towards the blonde German sitting near them, his gaze set on the twins and posture stiff.

Next to him were a tall, stoic man with glasses and a happy blonde person. Upon closer inspection, the shorter seemed to look a bit apprehensive under his smiling exterior. Next to them were Miss Elizabeta and that albino kid who was full of himself. The guy looked like he was being obnoxious.

Everybody was _flirting_.

The Russian's eyes darted towards the entrance as a short-haired girl and the emo boy waltzed in, looking very, very awkward together. They stood at an uncomfortably large distance from each other. The boy had a somewhat serene expression, and the girl looked like some mix of anger, worry, and hurt. It was hard to tell though, behind all that hair. Ivan was just good at reading people.

When it didn't concern him, that was.

He heard a rustle beside him, watching from the corner of his eye as that Asian boy he had spoken to last week sat down.

"Hi." he said. Ivan turned to look at him, appraising the mustard yellow cardigan, white oxford shirt, blue skinny jeans, and brown loafers.

"You look very gay." Ivan commented.

"Aiya!" he exclaimed, extremely miffed. "Gosh, you're rude!" Ivan nodded in response.

"So why are you here? Not here to steal vodka, are you?" he asked bluntly, the other crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes.

"No! I just wanted to say 'hi'! Gosh, what is your problem?" Yao said indignantly. Ivan giggled.

"You are pretty and amusing." he commented.

"You mean 'pretty amusing'?" the boy questioned with a wrinkle in his eyebrows.

"No." Yao blushed faintly and was unsure of what to say next. Fortunately for him, Yao was saved when Miss Elizabeta called everyone to their seats and began the meeting.

"Let's talk about childhood memories." Miss Elizabeta announced. "Why don't we start with you, Ivan?" she said, turning to face the light-haired boy.

"Childhood memories, you say…" Ivan thought of his past. "Do you mean the story of our childhood?"

"It can be anything." she answered.

"Okay. Well, older sister Katyusha and I were born in Russia, then our family went to Ukraine after our father died, where little half-sister Natalya was born…

...

_Natalya would be such a beautiful child, if only she were not so annoying_, Ivan thought. She whined and cried for him all the time, just as she was doing at that moment. Katyusha came over, eight at the time, and hissed at him.

"_Тишина_!" _hush_. she hissed. "Перед Отец слышит." _before father hears._ The young boy kissed the forehead of his baby sister, and she quieted. But it was too late. Their towering stepfather had returned, and he was glaring back and forth amongst his children.

"Тримайте поріддя тихо." _keep the brat quiet._ Katyusha and Ivan nodded solemnly, and the heavy thumps of his boots against the dirt floor made them shiver.

.

One day, when Ivan was five, their father forced their mother to leave the house and go to town. He needed her to purchase something, Ivan couldn't remember what, he just knew what happened after she returned. The woman came back, after the sun had fallen and rose again, bloody and bruised, clothes torn. She said that she had been mugged, and that was all. Ivan didn't understand until years later, when both the memory and his beautiful mother had long passed.

Nine months after the incident, she gave birth to a small boy named Nicolae. Several hours after, she died. Three days later, Nicolae was gone. One week later, Katyusha was sent to town to buy vodka. She, Ivan, and Natalya all went, Ivan leading the child and Katyusha carrying the alcohol. Those trips began to occur every week. One day after they bought the drink for the first time, their father started hitting them. The hitting began to occur every week.

All alone in the world, they continued to do his bidding.

.

One year later, bruised and broken, they were taken in by the government. Two months later, they left the cold, rancid building, heads shaved and bodies dirty, to live with family that they had never met nor heard of.

They were kind enough. The sister of their father and her husband. They took the children in, but did not care for them. They could not conceive, and they hated the childrens' father. They were okay, but they were cold. They were kind enough, but they were bitter.

When Ivan was eleven, Katyusha was fifteen. She could leave school. And she did. She went to town and sold herself on the streets, attracting many a man with her voluptuous chest. A year later, the family found out what Katyusha had been doing. A hostility developed, and tensions soared. Katyusha ran away, promising her siblings that one day, she'd be back.

In the presence of their adoptive parents, big sister was never spoken of again.

.

A year later, a year with no contact from the sister who had always protected him and cared for him, Ivan drank his first bottle of vodka. He enjoyed the burn of the liquid down his throat. He enjoyed the way he could forget, forget about the sister who had left him, the sister who was probably never coming back.

.

Two years later, he was fourteen. A year left until he could leave school. It was at school that he saw his sister once again. He could almost not believe that it was the same person, but her eyes, her warmth- they were unmistakable, even in his vodka-induced haze. She hugged him, and he was cradled in her bosom. Her hair had grown long; she didn't like it, but it had to be long. He didn't understand. It didn't matter, she told him. She had saved up enough for them all- her, Ivan, and Natalya to leave Ukraine. They could go to America.

"Ah- meh- ree- ka." Ivan pronounced the word slowly, not believing his ears.

Oh, _brother_, we can finally leave, she said. Bruh -ther? What is bruh- ther? It is what you are to me, she explained in a soothing, motherly voice. It means that we are connected by blood and by love. Ivan nodded.

.

Two months later, they were in America. Katyusha had found a job at an international day care centre, and Ivan and Natalya were in school. Katyusha had cut her hair short, just the way she liked it. They were learning English. They had left everything behind and started a new life, and they were happy. However, one little parasite stayed with them, a small little thing that would threaten to ruin their newfound bliss- Ivan's addiction.

...

… so now we are all here. Not much has changed since then." Ivan finished his story with the same broken English he had used to tell his three-minute long story. He came out of his mind to look around the circle, and was surprised at what he saw.

"Why are all you crying?" Very noticeable tears were streaming down the faces of most of the room, and the rest looked like they were trying very hard not to suddenly burst into sobs. Miss Elizabeta, the Italian twins, the stoic Swede, even the emo kid and that obnoxious albino kid. "Yao?" he turned to the boy beside him, who was shaking in his seat, head turned down towards his lap where he was fiddling with his fingers.

He glanced up when his name was called, and Ivan saw the man's single tear travelling from his eye, down his cheek, along his jaw, dripping off and disappearing into his clothes. "Oh, Ivan."

The purple-eyes boy looked around the circle, puzzled, as they all cried.

* * *

Everyone needs a hero. If one doesn't have a hero, that person must become one's own hero.

That was Amelia's philosophy. She thought about Ivan, and wondered if he thought of his sister as a hero. She wondered if he thought of his father as a villain.

She wondered if he felt anything at all. He had seemed so detached as he told his story, apathetic as he described the horrors of his childhood. If someone heard his voice without his words as he spoke, they could think he was talking about something as simple as the weather. Something he didn't really care about.

However, if someone were to look at him, _really_ look at him, that person would notice the little clench of his ring and pinky finger, the smallest twitches of his face. His steadiness, stoicness, stillness; it was only the surface. Inside that stiff outer shell was something soft. Ivan had a heart, it was simply buried, stuffed behind layers upon layers of solidified suffering. Despite the strong appearance, he was no statue. He felt.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Whelp. That happened. I'm loving the darkness in this chapter, but it became less satisfying as I reread this. I'm a bit dissatisfied with the ending. I wonder if I should cut out the last part, but it's important because it explains the inner workings of Russia. Kind of proud for how much alliteration I used in that last paragraph(sooo many s's).  
Also, Russia and Ukraine speak to each other in Russian, and the father speaks in Ukrainian.  
So, uh, yeah. I haven't really written much angst before, and not for a very long time, so please let me know how I did! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome to chapter 4! This is officially my longest fanfiction EVER(I've always abandoned them after three chapters .-.). I keep forgetting to write in the story notes at the end of the chapter, so here are the ones from the last:  
According to the article I read, the orphanage the girl from my old school was in what looked like a burned out factory, in which waste was everywhere, clothes that were washed monthly were the only things the children owned, and their heads were shaved occasionally due to frequent lice infestations.  
Also something from the first chapter: the term nymphomania is used for females, and satyriasis is its male counterpart. I don't really care though, since its the exact same thing, so I'll refer to Francis as a nymphomaniac, even though it's not the politically correct term.  
Lastly, to reply to a guest review from the last chapter, I'm writing this story with romance as a second genre, so while there will be romance, I don't want it to be my main focus. There will be two or three explicit pairings most likely, but for anything else, pairings will be implicit.  
As always, thank you for the favourites, follows, and reviews!  
**WARNING:** Somewhat sexist thoughts. They'll be explained at the end of the chapter.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Do not own.

* * *

Yao was a very selfish person. That is why, even after hearing Ivan's tragic story, he was thinking of himself. He shivered to think what his life could have been like if that had happened to him, if he had he been born a girl.

He might have ended up as Ivan and his family did, living in a orphanage, penniless, selling himself on the streets…

Thank God he was born a boy.

.

Yao was born to a middle class family in Jiangsu. He came into the world in a nice house and with a nice family. He didn't quite remember China, as his family had moved when he was relatively young. He had only one memory of that time.

He and his mother and father had been in Nanjing, which was not too far away from his own town. The Wang family was on its way to the International Plum Blossom Festival, walking together through the city. As they passed near an alleyway, Yao heard a cry.

"那是什么？" _what is that? _Yao asked, stopping at the noise.

"这算不得什么。我们将继续前进。" _it is nothing; we will keep moving._ his father replied, tugging the young boy's hand and trying to force him to move forward.

Yao slipped out of his parent's grasp and tore off towards the noise. He ignored their calls as he ran, wandering into the decrepit alley. The sound of the cry came again, louder this time.

Snapping around towards the noise, Yao saw her. He spotted a little baby swathed in a clean and warm blanket, tears in her eyes and soft cries leaving her mouth.

His parents caught up to him. They stilled as they saw.

"这是一个婴儿。" he whispered. _It is a baby._

Looking at each other warily, his parents made a decision. His mother picked up the baby in her arms, and his father grabbed onto Yao's hand.

They took the baby to the orphanage, only two blocks away. Yao and his father stayed back as his mother brought the baby to the woman in charge, exchanging quick words. She handed over the baby and walked back to her family. She grabbed Yao's hand tightly, sandwiching him between his parents. Together, the family went to the Plum Festival, and Yao was thankful that he had not been born a girl.

.

When he turned three, his family moved to America so that they could build up some business or other, Yao never bothered to learn.

His clever and skilled parents quickly became rich. With smart business tactics and great ideas, they built a comfortable and luxurious life for their family.

Yao became a very spoilt child. His parents gave him whatever he wanted; they just wanted to keep their little boy happy and quiet and occupied.

He was lavished with gifts, soft designer clothes, delectable lo mein stirred up by the professional cook living in his house, along with the nicest nannies. He had everything a child could want, except the attention of his parents.

.

When he was eleven years old, he stole for the first time. ONe day after school, he was in the mall with his parents. It was one of those rare days when they were both free. They had better be free; it _was_ his birthday, after all. They brought him to a toy store, with games, Nerf guns, stuffed animals- everything a child could possibly want.

The stuffed animals were Yao's favourite part. His parents sat down near the entrance as they allowed their son to explore the store. Whilst looking around, he spotted an itty bitty panda stuffed animal. It was made of the softest material, and it had the cutest eyes…

Looking to his left and to his right, he saw no one in the aisle. Moving quickly, he unzipped his schoolbag and stuffed the toy inside. He looked around a bit more, trying not to seem suspicious. He pretended to be interested in a water gun, struggling not to twist his face into an ugly expression. He loathed water guns.

After a few minutes, he left the store.

"Did you find anything you want us to buy?" his mother asked, glancing up from her Blackberry.

"Nope!" The young boy said, smiling mischieviously. They went to dinner, where his parents spent the meal doing something on their phones, then went home. He was forced to take a shower and brush his teeth before he was finally granted freedom.

Nearly sprinting to his room, Yao closed his door and locked it. He grabbed a flashlight, crawled under his panda comforter, and opened his backpack, heart racing. He unzipped it and pulled the small stuffed animal out. He stared into its plastic eyes, felt the soft plush, smelled that beautiful smell. He turned off the light and snuggled with his new panda, falling asleep with the fur tickling his cheek.

The next morning, Yao brought the animal down to breakfast, wondering if his parents would notice the stolen toy. When he sat down at the breakfast table, his parents only tapped away at their phones. They finished eating and left without a word. Yao looked down at his little bear and frowned.

He didn't have to steal the bear. If he had simply, asked, the toy would have been granted to him. It wouldn't have been what he wanted.

What did Yao want, exactly? It wasn't stuff that he wanted, he had enough _stuff_. He wanted… thrill? Attention? Love?

Yao didn't know why, after that, he couldn't stop stealing. He didn't even question the urge to grab, steal, take. He certainly didn't feel an annoying pang whenever he wore his stolen possessions in front on his parents with them not even looking at him. Most definitely not.

No, Yao was simply selfish.

.

When Yao was thirteen, his parents went bankrupt. He wasn't exactly sure of what happened, or how, just that the servants went away, the Wang family moved from their mansion to a small two-bedroom house, and his parents' faces, once youthful with that perpetual air of sophistication and arrogance, had turned old, wrinkled, desperate.

They did not give up, however. They started working at modest jobs(Yao didn't know what those were either), and they made a decent living. Yao could tell, though, that they weren't happy. He was okay with it, however. The only thing that mattered was himself. It was his parents' own faults that they had gone bankrupt. Karma was a bitch.

Maybe now they would notice him.

Eating their modest breakfast, they sat quietly. Yao wore a beautiful, green, cashmere sweater. He had smirked as he nabbed it; it was worth a pretty $429.99. Stealing this gem had been his biggest heist yet.

He watched as his parents ate, put their dishes in the sink, and slipped out the front door without a word.

Yao did not notice the tear slipping from his eye as he thought about his parents. It was as if they moved robotically, going through the motions of human with no life. They had become zombies.

Yao thought of the abandoned baby, and how they had said not a word, showed not one emotion as the family left her and went to the Plumb Festival.

Or maybe they had been like that all along.

* * *

Francis frowned at the Italians. The lighter haired twin, Feliciano, was ignoring Francis in favour of that stiff German. Antonio, who was supposed to be _helping_ him get one of the twins(or both) into his bed, was instead flirting with _his_ prey. Francis consoled himself in the fact that the Italian seemed immensely irritated by Antonio's mere presence.

He sighed. Another night with his hand seemed to be all that awaited him. He had nearly resigned himself to this fact when he caught sight of a certain Brit walking past him, a grin crawling onto his face.

"Arthur!" he called out, standing up and resting his hands on the other's shoulders.

"What do you want, frog?" he asked, turning his head towards him, and Francis frowned. The words were familiar, but the tone was calmer than normal. It lacked a certain… bite. He quickly brought his grin back as he formulated a plan. It would not do if Arthur became suspicious; well, more than usual, since he was almost always suspicious of Francis.

Francis trailed his fingers down the Brit's arm and entwined their fingers together. His grin widened as Arthur raised a curious, bushy brow at him.

"We are going to my house." he announced, leaving no room for protest as he tightened his grip on Arthur's fish fingers. Arthur glanced at their entwined hands, and sighed as he knew that the damn Frenchie would not let go until he got his way.

"Fine."

.

"So, do tell, Arthur. What is eating at your mind?" The Brit shot a glare at him over the rim of his teacup. He sat all the way back in the yellow high backed chair, black socked-feet pressed to the edge of the seat, knees raised. Next to him was an identical chair, in which Francis sat. The chairs were almost touching at the front and spread wide at the back, a small round table situated in the open space between the chairs.

"Absolutely nothing." The Frenchman laughed, placing his coffee down on the table. "What is so funny?"

"Something is _always_ eating at your mind, even at times of peace." The words caused his companion to frown. He thought back to this past week, all the times he had been so close to sending that message, that single, cursed "hi", but lacked the courage to tap that little button. He thought of the blood swirling in the drain, Amelia's fingers bandaging his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt that pervert's hand on his leg.

"Does it have to do with that girl, Amelia?" The interruption in his thoughts caused the Brit to jump in his seat. Thankfully, he hadn't spilt his tea.

"Amelia?" The name slipped off his lips, music to his ears. He thought of her shy smile, the way her eyes lit up when she was happy. He frowned as he remembered the way she hid herself and acted almost cold before Support Group. His frown deepened as he felt the hand crawl up to his knee.

"Yes, her." Francis said, smirk floating in his voice. "It's obvious that you're smitten with her."

"Am not."

"And you have proven my point. Why do you not pursue her?" he questioned, and Arthur stayed stubbornly silent. "Come on, rosbif, penny for your thoughts." The hand crawled up his thigh…

Arthur slapped it away angrily.

"She would never love me!" he exclaimed angrily. After the outburst, the fire in his eyes died, replaced by sadness. "No one could ever love me." He stared into his teacup, as if the liquid might hold all the answers.

Francis was quiet for a moment, a bit stunned by Arthur's violent reaction.

"You insist that no one loves you, but what about me?" he asked.

"That's not love, that's lust." Arthur muttered, gaze locked onto his tea.

Francis smirked a bit. "That means I love your body, no?" Arthur lifted his gaze to glare at the other.

"I'm leaving." he said, placing down the teacup and placing his feet on the floor.

"Wait." Francis reach out to grab the Brit's wrist with a firm grasp, feeling the scars under his fingers. He swiped his thumb across his forearm, over the puckered skin. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to his flesh. Arthur felt a blush rise to his cheeks at the strange, intimate gesture.

"Mon lapin, whilst you are extremely frustrating, infuriating, and annoying, you do happen to be my best friend. And while I would love to have you under me, I do think that it means something- the fact that you haven't slept with me." Francis stared into Arthur's wide, bright green eyes. "You still think that you're worth something, that Arthur is significant and not just some hunk of flesh. _You_ are significant." Francis finished. He watched Arthur blink once, twice, before a rush of colour pervaded his senses. His friend tackled him with a hug, arms wrapping around his neck. He laughed and Francis felt small drops of hot tears fall onto his shoulder.

"Bloody hell, you blinding wanker. If you tell anyone about this, I will stab you." Arthur warned him. He hugged back, smiling as he wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist.

"Mmm, ditto."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, time for an especially self-indulgent author's note. Back around the 1990's(perhaps 80's as well), most Chinese parents wanted sons, not daughters(the one-child policy was mandated in 1979), so a whole lot of families gave up their daughters for adoption. Back then, it was really easy to adopt a Chinese baby girl(how I got here! Jiangsu is the province where I was born). Eventually people realised that they needed girls in China, so now it's hard as dicks. Yao, belonging to a middle class family, thinks of how he might have been left to an orphanage had he been born a girl. The "clean and warm blanket" means that the family that abandoned the baby was well off. Also, the International Plumb Blossom festival is a real thing that happens in Nanjing, and has happened annually for about 17 years.  
I don't know Mandarin, and there's a different dialect in Jiangsu anyway, so the Chinese is probably way, way off.  
I apologise for the British slang fail.  
Lastly, I am currently staying at my aunt's apartment(it's been great, went to the theatre, museums, got a Chromebook which I LOVE, and a GODDAMN G-1 BOMBER JACKET AT MY COUSIN'S VINTAGE SHOP), and my aunt is a therapist(I am literally surrounded by therapists) who happens to have a very user-friendly guide to personality disorders and it's SO USEFUL; I'll probably post a guide of the characters and their personality disorders on Tumblr sometime soon.


End file.
